Gran
by ericajanebarry
Summary: "But you see, when your only child dies, then you're not a mother anymore. You're not anything, really. And that's what I'm trying to get used to." But Isobel IS something indeed ... in the eyes of her grandson. Leaving it open in case one day a follow-on chapter is written.
**A/N: What can I say? This ... came out of nowhere. I was driving my children to school yesterday and suddenly there was a fic, nearly fully written, floating through my head. It did not get written last night for reasons of lack of time and self-doubt.**

 **Ultimately, I could not let it go. I've never seen this done in DA fandom and, while I've two WIPs that demand my focus, I couldn't brain with regard to either of them until I got this out of my system.**

 **You're not supposed to dedicate fics, but I am: to Nanny and Noah after Chris.**

 **Do drop me a review and let me know what you think. Perhaps I'm way out in left field with this. Either way, I'd love to hear from you.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 _"But you see, when your only child dies, then you're not a mother anymore. You're not anything, really. And that's what I'm trying to get used to."_ – Isobel Crawley

 **oOo**

 **17 September 1921  
** **One week old**

He doesn't know why she cries. She holds him close and rocks them both and her neck is soft and warm as he nuzzles his face into it. She speaks to him softly, to him and to his mother. She has been with them all the while; he knows this because he recognizes her voice. He has heard it as often as he has heard Mummy's, and though he cannot really see them, either one, their voices are the ones he knows. He has a fondness for Mummy because when his tummy rumbles, she makes it stop. And her heartbeat is familiar; when he is feeding he can hear it and he knows it from somewhere, from the warm, dark place he was before.

But Mummy is not the one who holds him so close. No, it is _she_ , and his favorite place to be is in her arms. She smells sweet, and she is gentle as she strokes his head, as she pats his back, as she bathes him and changes his nappy and swaddles him. She is practiced at this; she must be, for there is a smoothness and ease in her movements, and that's not the case with Mummy.

He hears her speaking to Mummy, and her voice is soft and soothing and steady. The words he doesn't understand: "You're doing a fine job, Mary ... Just like that … I'll take him as soon as he's through." But then suddenly her voice isn't so smooth, nor is Mummy's, and these are the times he lies in his cot as the two of them make sounds that alert him that something's amiss. He can't be sure what it's all about but he hears more words, the same words over and over: _Matthew_ and _gone_ and _alone,_ and sharp exclamations of, _"No!"_

It troubles him, both the fact that he can sense they are upset and that he does not find himself in _her_ warm embrace. And so he does what he can, all he knows: he cries until _she_ comes to him and gathers him up and they lie in bed together, he and _she_ and Mummy. And then he hears his favorite words, though he does not yet know why.

"It's all right, George. Gran is here."

 **oOo**

 **31 March 1922  
** **6½ months old**

He is aware of so many things now. He can sit up and watch as the one who calls herself _Auntie Edith_ smiles at him - though never when Mummy is looking - and he smiles back. Sometimes, if Mummy is not around, she will pick him up and cuddle him and kiss his forehead, and he likes it even if it seems to him as though she is sad about something.

The one they call _Donk_ refers to him as "young chap," and he likes it when the man comes around because he is accompanied by a great, fascinating yellow beast with a wet nose and a tail that is a great deal of fun for him to try to grasp. He has succeeded a time or two now, shrieking in delight at his accomplishment, and when the beast made a similar sound he'd thought she must be enjoying it too … until Mummy grabbed his hand and said sharply, "No, George!"

He hadn't known what to do. Mummy had never spoken to him in that way before, and he had been frightened. His bottom lip had begun to tremble and he'd looked at Mummy with big, wet eyes.

"Oh, no, George. No, darling, don't cry. Mummy only meant that you mustn't pull the dog's tail because it hurts her. Oh, please don't cry!" Mummy's face looked like he felt, and she'd scooped him up and held him, but she wasn't calm and soothing; she was uptight, and he cried harder and harder the more she'd tried to get him to stop. There was only one person he wanted now, only one who would know how to calm him down.

As luck would have it, she'd walked into the drawing room at that very moment and, seeing him and Mummy all red-faced and teary-eyed, had drawn them both into her embrace.

"There, now … it's all right. Don't cry, George. Gran is here." His favorite voice! How he had wished he could leap into her arms! He reached for her, crying harder until Mummy gave him over. There were the arms that had held him so close for as far back as he could remember. His sobs ceased as she rocked him and he snuggled into the warm crook of her neck. He heard her speaking softly to his mummy, but he couldn't care less what was being said. She was with him now, and all was right with the world.

"No, Mary, you did nothing wrong. He mustn't be permitted to pull the dog's tail. Isis is a patient soul, but a day will come when she won't tolerate being pestered. You'll have to get used to setting George straight. He needs to know his limits and it's your job as his mother to set them lovingly."

By this point he had fallen asleep, and for all that she'd said about _pestering_ and _limits_ and _setting him straight,_ she had taken him into the nursery and held him as she rocked him, cradling him in her arms, the arms he loved best.

 **oOo**

 **20 July, 1922  
** **10 months old**

The world around him is expanding, growing more interesting day by day. His mummy is happier now. She walks with him in the pram through the gardens and allows him to sit on the prickly grass. He crawls toward a butterfly and watches its yellow and black wings flutter, then grabs a fistful of clover blossoms, which he attempts to put in his mouth.

Mummy's face takes on a worried expression for a moment and he stops to watch, but then he sees her smile. She takes his treasure out of his hand, but holds it in hers for him to see. "Ah-ah, George! _Touch_ the clover. Does it feel soft? Different from the grass, isn't it? But it's not to be put in your mouth." Mummy is trying to be calmer around him now, and while it still seems to take a great deal of _trying_ on her part, she does smile at him much more than she used to.

In addition to being happier and calmer, Mummy is busier now. Something about _Uncle Tom_ and _Donk_ and _the estate_ , and he doesn't know what any of it means. All he knows is that those big words mean Mummy isn't with him some of the time, and when she isn't, _Gran_ is.

 _Gran, Gran, Gran!_ He tries to say it to her. He thinks it must've worked, because she stops what she's doing and comes to him, sits down on the kitchen floor where he's got an array of pots and pans and cooking utensils, and looks him right in the eye.

"Yes, sir! What can I do for you?"

 _Gran! Gran!_ He says it again: _"Gaah! Gaah!"_ But it's close enough. She knows that he knows who she is.

"Yes, my darling. I am Gran. And _you_ are George! Do you know who gave you that name? It was your daddy. Remember Gran and Mummy telling you about Daddy?"

He blinks at her with those big blue eyes and for just a moment her heart clenches painfully. _Those eyes. Matthew's eyes. Matthew … He's gone. I am alone._

But reality catches up to her in the form of an unexpected lapful, breaking her out of her reverie. George is trying to stand, and he'd pulled himself up by holding onto her shoulder while she was lost in thought and then toppled over, landing in her lap.

He looks up at her, unsure how he feels about what he's just done. She sees his lip trembling and distracts him by scooping him into her arms, blowing raspberries on his belly. He laughs and laughs, and she along with him.

"There now. Up you go! You're all right. Gran is here!"

Later they sit together in the rocking chair. She shows him pieces of paper with faces on them. There's a big word she uses - _photographs_ \- but he doesn't know what it means. There's Mummy. He recognizes her face. And Granny and Donk and Auntie Edith and Uncle Tom. And there's one face that's common to every one of the squares of paper. "Daddy," Gran tells him. "That's Daddy."

 _Daddy._ It's a word he has heard often, as often as any other word he knows. But he can place all of those other words to something, or to someone. He cannot place _Daddy._ Is _Daddy_ the image he sees, the face staring back at him that looks like his own? He points his chubby finger - he can do that now - at the face Gran showed him.

"Da?" he tries. "Dadadada? Dadadadada!" He watches her face for signs of acknowledgment.

She smiles brightly back at him, nodding her head, which is something he understands. "Yes, George, that is your daddy." She kisses his forehead and runs her fingers through the silken hair that is starting to grow. His eyelids grow heavy and she gathers him up, and he tucks his face into the warm, soft crook of her neck and sighs contentedly.

"Sleep now, George," she whispers, "Gran is here."

He cannot know that they are here today because his daddy died on the very day he was born. Someday he will understand, but now he is blissfully ignorant of the fact that, were it not for him, she would likely have joined his daddy, her son. He cannot comprehend that he is the last remaining link between her and the only child she ever had.

He doesn't know she was a girl once, with dreams of marriage and children of her own, for sure, but also of righting wrongs, of giving voice to the voiceless. One day he'll hear stories of how she worked alongside his grandfather - whom he also never knew - to save the lives of patients doomed to die of heart failure. He will learn that she risked the reputation of her son's family to teach women the skills necessary to provide for themselves by safe and respectable means, enduring ridicule from both the family _and_ the very women she determined to help.

One day he will know all these things. He will discover the truth, that she has suffered great loss, a husband and then a son. He will also learn, to his amazement, that these losses did not serve to embitter her heart or turn her away from her zeal for helping others.

But he doesn't need to know any of this to know who she is. Hers were the first hands to welcome him into this life, the first eyes onto which his opened. Hers were the arms that held Mummy while the both of them cried, the arms that hold him as he sleeps. Hers are the hands he will hold until he is brave enough to take his first steps, the hands that will catch him when he falls. Hers is the sweet, steady assurance that all is well.

She is _Gran._ And that's all he needs to know.

 **oOo**

 **Epilogue  
** **10 September 1922**

She does not know that he watches her as closely as he does, or that he perceives so much of what she feels even if he cannot yet understand. She is putting on her bravest face today. A year since the death of her son. A year since the birth of her grandson. The latter is the occasion they are gathered to celebrate, and while her tears are close to the surface she reins them in gamely.

She is better with something to occupy her hands, her mind, her time, and so she gets down on the floor with him as he opens his gifts, and she keeps a list of which toy came from whom and helps him to blow kisses in thanks. She is there beside Mary, clutching her daughter-in-law's hand as he takes his first messy bite of birthday cake. Mary watches her, too, so she is careful to laugh at all the right moments. It's not that she doesn't feel joy … _Oh!_ Quite the contrary. She feels so much of it that it nearly overwhelms. But so does the sorrow on this particular day, and by the end of it all her face hurts from smiling and her chest aches from holding back the building sobs.

He is tired, and what's more, he is teething. Mummy tries her hand at soothing him but she's not who he wants.

"Gaah," he insists. "Gaah!" Mummy sighs, kisses his forehead and rings downstairs. _Has Isobel left yet, and if not, would she come to the nursery?_ She waits with her son, changes him into pajamas and rocks him, and he snuggles against her but he just won't settle.

"Darling, what is it?" Mother and son look up as she approaches them with a tired smile upon her face.

"I'm so sorry, Isobel. He's knackered and his teeth are troubling and I've tried all I know but he keeps calling for you." Mary looks contrite, anxious and exhausted. She would never allow herself to be seen in such a state … not by anyone but Isobel.

"It's no trouble, love, truly. I was a fool to think I could spend the evening alone anyhow. Not on a night such as this. You go. I'll take it from here." She squeezes Mary's hand encouragingly and reaches for George, gathering him in her arms.

Alone they are, alone at last, and she puts out the lights before settling with him into the rocking chair. He calms instantly, his thumb in his mouth and his head tucked into her neck.

"Gaah," he whispers. "Gaah." His breathing slows, deepens, evens out. He is asleep, at peace in her arms.

"Yes, George," she whispers into the darkness. "I am Gran. It's all right. I'm here."

The tears flow freely now, and she lets them. She hurts … _Oh, God, she hurts._ He should be here! Matthew should be here today. Should have been here all year long. He should have seen his son roll over, sit up, crawl, and cut his first teeth. Should be there when he learns to ride a bicycle, goes off to school, plays on the rugby team, graduates university.

She shifts the babe in her arms, gazing at his sweet face in repose. Oh, this boy! He cannot know all that he has given her, or all that he has saved her from. She has lost, but she has gained. Slowly but surely she is finding her way back, or finding her new normal, whichever the case may be.

She had said, not long after Matthew's death, that she was not a mother anymore … that she was not _anything._ She was never _just_ a mother, to be sure, but it was the one aspect of her identity that, once lost, could never be recovered. She has been many things to many people. She will be again.

But for now, tonight, she is Gran. And that's all she needs to know.


End file.
